The Dark Place: And Other Stories

By TD Smith

TD Smith
grew up along the mighty Waikato River
in the North Island of New Zealand.
Among the misty pine lakes she became increasingly
fascinated by the mystical stories of the old people.

As a child she had nightmares.

The old people told her to write them down;
that they might have significant messages.
Some messages are obvious, others obscure;
however ever since,
she now looks forward to her adventurous dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483649566

TD Smith

Growing up in New Zealand TD Smith of Polynesian/European descent enjoyed listening to the stores of; as they were referred to, ‘the old people’ Their mystical tales is the inspiration behind most of her work

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Copyright © 2013 by TD Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 06/04/2013

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1-800-618-969

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

Prologue

Can’t You See Her

I Am Here

Epilogue

Staghorn Gorge

Head For The Hills

Run For Your Life

Ragwort Cove

for Malinda

pretty, petite and graceful

yet also strong and fearless

The Dark Place is written in two parts;

Lana’s story, and Lani’s Story—

It is about two girls who are forever intertwined by a bond so strong that only the death of them both would finally severe their connection…

Experts would analyse it is the story of a person’s split personalities caused by the traumatic events of failed relationships, being separated from her children, and how she coped with it all…

Except the story began long before

motherhood and men…

PROLOGUE

WAS RIDING A horse down a narrow country lane lined with fragrant Camellia which had been my grandmother’s favourite plant. The sun shone warmly on my face as I breathed in the flower’s enchanted fragrance. I was so captivated with the pleasant ride that I almost fell from the horse when my grandmother suddenly ran out from between the trees and grabbing the bridle, abruptly stopped my horse—naturally I was pleased to see her; but I was also perplexed and wanted to say, ‘but… you’re supposed to be dead…’ but I felt afraid that my words might break the spell of her ethereal presence and I let her silently lead us down a tiny path through a dark forest until we reached a clearing and I had to blink from the brightness after being in the dark woods before I realized—we were in the middle of a cemetery—still; we continued in silence, until she stopped—and pointed—and I gasped—I had to climb down from my horse to take a closer look to be sure I was seeing correctly—two identical simple white tombstones standing side by side—one with my name on it, and the other blank—but when I turned to question her about this strange mystery, she’d vanished…

CAN’T YOU SEE HER

LANI’S STORY

I ALWAYS FELT AS though someone else was constantly with me; as if I had an invisible companion, as if there were actually two of me—but I learned early not to mention it, and I was told I had an overactive imagination…

So for the first few years of my life I learned to ignore the invisible presence, and even believed the adult’s words—that I have an overactive imagination—but deep down, I couldn’t help but wonder…

At first, the ‘other presence’ was full of love and I felt safe with her around—after hearing of Maori (I’m a New Zealand born Polynesian/European) stories of guardians, I even wondered if she was mine—without ever seeing her; I knew she was a female, I knew she was the same age, and I knew we looked alike…

I tried talking to her—but this was discovered by the adults and I was accused of having an imaginary friend—so for a while I managed to almost convince myself ‘she’ did not exist at all—for a while…

Then one night when I was about five years old and lay dosing off to sleep in my bed; I saw her—I immediately knew who she was; and for a moment, my mind recalled when we were as one; safely and securely, huddled somewhere together—but I had left her behind—my young mind couldn’t fathom the details exactly, but I knew I had somehow betrayed this girl who looked so much like me—she was wearing a pretty dress (I didn’t care how I looked, nor did I care about clothes) and she was ascending from above—almost as if walking down some invisible stairs—gracefully, I noticed—but there are no stairs in my room, and this is a one storey house—at first she smiled at me—as she approached and gracefully sat on the edge of my bed—I had mixed emotions—a part of me was happy to see her, actually see my other self, at last—but another part of me was afraid of her—if she was my guardian, why should I fear her, but I did—I was very afraid…

Then suddenly her pretty, smiling face changed—distorted—I can feel the intense hatred this other me, felt for me—I froze—I was too scared to move…

Who are you, and why do you hate me? I managed to ask her.

You know who I am, ‘she’ replied, and you killed me—KILLED ME!

NO!!!!

Mum came running into my room, switching the light on—I pointed, but mum had no idea what I was pointing at, what I was seeing.

Can’t you see her? Can’t you see her?

The girl looked at my mother so sadly, so longingly, that I stopped being afraid, and felt sorry for her—then she started fading, and slowly disappeared—after telling my mother what had happened, and although she told me I’d just had a bad nightmare, and to go back to sleep, I could tell by her eyes, her expression, that she believed me…

I loved school—concentrating on learning kept my mind focussed on other things other than the girl that looks a lot like me and appears momentarily while dosing off to sleep or during those first disoriented moments when waking up.

Both my parents liked going to the cinema and because they had different tastes and didn’t like going alone, I became their movie companion—getting lost in these adventures soon made it bearable to live with my own seemingly unique situation and eventually, I almost forgot she ever existed—almost…

Once I experienced some kind of ‘black out’ while at school and when I came to, apparently I had painted a very lifelike painting of my home—the other children didn’t appreciate it, but the teachers thought it was ‘beyond my years’—so evidently, I could paint—not surprisingly though I suppose, since my father was a good artist and used to discuss what he was doing while painting. So I accepted that as yet another of my many talents, inherited from my talented parents (they were artists, singers, dancers, and even had a magician’s act); however, the next time I ‘blacked out’ at school, I’d written a book and this time I felt disturbed because I had written words I